The King's Gambit
by Shtuff
Summary: AU after X-Men: First Class. In a world where mutants are ruthlessly hunted by the government, the combined forces of Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr encounter a man who could be their undoing. A man who has fully earned the title of "monster."
1. Moving Pieces

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Literally, nothing.

**So, I watched X-Men: First Class in theaters right after it came out and my mind was totally blown away, especially by the relationship between Erik and Charles. I'm always a sucker for friendship stories and theirs was just so beautiful and tragic. Gah, the ending just about killed me, and I had to write something to fix the gaping hole it left in my heart. **

**This is the result. It's AU, set in a universe where Charles and Erik are able to work out their differences, and fight for a common cause. The government stepped up their fight against mutants right after the beach, and so Charles and Erik face down an unraveling world and increasing threats of imprisonment and execution. Banding together, they fight to protect their fellow mutants, while still demonstrating that they can be the better men. **

**Feedback is much appreciated! **

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><p>The rain feels like ice against his skin as he struggles to find purchase on the muddy slope. His left boot slips, nearly sending him to his knees, and he fights a grimace as pain shoots up through his leg. When one of the others gives him a concerned glance, he forces his features to smooth into his usual calm mask.<p>

Calm is always important on days such as this.

Once he has regained his footing, he cautiously picks his way along the hill, hugging the tree line tightly and aware of the others fanned out around him, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Invisibility is as critical as calm. They move like ghosts through the forest, circling around their target in a wide arc. He keeps his eyes roving, searching for possible motion sensors or stray patrols. He can't sense any immediate danger, but his accuracy hardly has a perfect record in situations like this.

At last, they reach their goal: the point where the trees give way to an even steeper slope that plunges down into the small valley that houses their target. The small group drops to all fours, spreading out along the ridge before lying flat, trusting the shadows to offer enough protection.

He pulls a pair of binoculars out of the pouch he has taken to wearing, wiping mud and rainwater from his eyes before peering through them to the rear entrance of the facility below. Half a dozen guards—all armed with automatic weapons. Expected, but the sight still sends butterflies swirling around in his stomach.

He wonders if he'll ever be completely used to all this.

"They look ready for a fight." He turns to the man who has taken up residence at his side—a place he rarely moves from, to be honest.

"So do you," he comments mildly, shoving his cumbersome bangs off his forehead. He hasn't had a haircut in months and he's starting to feel like a scruffy dog.

"I'm always prepared," his old friend, best friend, says with a sharp smile—the kind he always wears on these missions.

"We're not going to fight them, Erik," he replies firmly, a weary sigh lacing his words. They have this argument every time. More for the sake of it than anything else, but he's tired today.

He's also cold. Really cold. And the mud is making it hard to move, coating his skin beneath even the protective cover of his heavy clothing.

"Charles." He blinks over at Erik, realizing that the other man is waiting for a response of some kind.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Erik's gray blue eyes pierce his, tight with worry at the corners—a worry only he's ever able to see.

"Where's your head, Charles?" his voice is tight, too, but not with anger. The anger has been bleeding out of him for years, now, and thankfully, there isn't much left.

Charles shrugs, unsure of how to answer. His head is everywhere: monitoring the guards marching below them, soothing any lingering anxieties of his fellow mutants, running through plans again, preparing for the obstacles that lay ahead of them, and griping about the cold, apparently.

"There's never a simple answer to that, Erik," he jokes with a faint smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

Erik shakes his head, but Charles can sense the flare of fondness running through his mind.

"Guys?" Alex's fingers are clutching his binoculars in a death grip, and his eyes are wide and uncertain in his pale face. "There's a car approaching from the east."

"What?" Sean hisses, lifting his own binoculars. "That wasn't part of the plan."

Charles automatically reaches a portion of his mind out to the car, brushing against the occupants. One mind is dull, focused only on the task of driving and trying to suppress mounting anxiety about the men talking quietly in the backseat.

_They are powerful men and impatient. One mistake and he could disappear forever, and that _can't _happen. He has a wife and kids to think about… _

Another mind is swirling with anger—a hurricane that batters him when he presses his mental hands against it.

_These mutants are a disease, _terrorists, _and they should be dealing with them accordingly, not sitting around waiting for the red tape to clear. If the base were to be attacked, his men wouldn't know how to even begin to respond… _

The third mind is the most dangerous, filled to the brim with endless calculations, but beneath it all powerful malice hums—the kind of malice that can rip a world to shreds, the same malice that used to permeate Shaw's mind.

_The men of the base need to be trained, specially trained, to deal with mutant threats. However, first they must learn more of these threats. Cataloguing is going well, but more steps need to be taken, study… _

He pulls away when a firm hand lands on his shoulder, shaking his concentration. Blinking away the images he'd seen, flashes of pain and terror, he peers up into Erik's steady gaze. "What is it, Charles?"

The others have shifted closer, worry furrowing deep lines in their young faces.

He sighs, feeling the full weight of his weariness deep in his bones. "We might be in trouble. That's General Whitlock in the car and with him is a man called William Stryker."

"Stryker?" Alex's voice is barely audible over the dull roar of the rain. "I know that name…"

"His mind wasn't very pretty, that's for certain." He can feel a headache starting to build and his leg is aching.

"Wait a minute…" Sean beckons them back toward the tree line and they huddle in a small circle, regarding each other with grim expressions. "Stryker was in Raven's report, remember? He's working with the CIA to track down mutants, he's attached to the same division Raven is."

He remembers now. Raven wearing Moira's face, having taken her place in the CIA—looking too serious, too old—and informing him on a new "consultant" hired by her division.

"_This guy is serious bad news, guys. Be careful." _

"…guy's crazy!" Alex brings him back to the present and he curls his fingers into a loose fist against his thigh. The wet cloth scrapes against his freezing skin and looking at his fellow mutants, he can feel their mounting despair.

Except Erik. Erik's mind is alight with the prospect of a challenge, buzzing almost excitedly. He's not sure which of the two is more worrying, but he addresses the one he is certain he can change.

"We've come too far to give up now," he tells Alex and Sean, fixing them both with a determined stare. "We need that information. Those plans and the registry could be vital to saving more lives. We have to go in."

Erik grips his shoulder again, pulling him up from his crouch. His leg pulses in protest, but he stamps down on the pain, keeping his face blank. Erik nods to the puzzled others. "I'd like a word with Charles. We'll be back in a minute."

Charles follows him to another small clearing a few feet away. Irritation is beginning to mount, because he knows what's coming—has been through this same song and dance too many times in the past. When Erik stops, he crosses his arms and regards his old friend with a dark frown.

"I can handle this," he says before Erik can speak.

Erik sighs, pointing to his left leg. "Your leg is paining you."

"I'll be fine." He keeps his voice even, free of cracks for Erik to expose.

Erik takes several steps closer, stopping right in front of him. "You're sure?"

His eyes are searching, but there's trust in them, too. The steady kind. The trust they've been slowly building ever since the beach, since Erik showed up on his doorstep in search of common ground. It's the trust that dampens his anger, lets it slide away into exasperated fondness.

"Yes. I'll be fine. We have to get that information, Erik. You said so yourself. You planned this raid, remember?"

Erik sighs again, but nods in assent. They've become masters of compromise. "Fine. But, Charles?"

"Yes?" He stops mid-turn, shifting to face his friend again.

"If you show any signs of slowing us down, I'm carrying you out of there myself."

Charles grimaces, rubbing idly at his wristwatch as he clearly remembers the last time Erik decided to rescue him from danger. He hadn't been able to use his hand for a week, and even though Erik had been terribly guilty about it, he knows the metal manipulator would do it again without batting an eye if he thought it was necessary.

"Fine. But if you insist on carrying me, then I insist on you doing it properly this time."

Erik's smile is soft—the one he reserves only for Charles, for these quiet moments when the war falls away and they can be just friends, just ErikandCharles—and his eyes are teasing. "Don't worry, Charles, I won't damage your dignity too badly."

Knowing that's as much of a promise as he's going to get, Charles straightens his jacket and sends a mental tap over to Sean and Alex, beckoning them to head for the clearing. They appear a minute later, carefully picking their way through the brush in an effort to maintain the eerie silence hovering in the woods.

"We're going in," Charles says without preamble. They have little time for pleasantries or sugar-coated explanations, these days. They have little time for anything.

They both look too young, too frightened, but Havok and Banshee nod without hesitation. They are soldiers of a sort now, and he never intended it to be this way, but in some things, Erik is right. Painfully right. And in others, wrong, as is he. That is the tragedy and the beauty of the common ground between them: it is built upon sacrifice—of dreams, of ideals, of plans, of beliefs.

He has sacrificed so much, but looking at the fire in Alex and Sean's eyes, the light in Erik's, he can't bring himself to regret it.

"Stick to the plan," Erik is saying. "We're not here to destroy the base. We get in, get the information, and leave immediately."

"I'll throw up the illusion as soon as we cross the tree line," he slides into the space Erik leaves behind with practiced ease. "Remember, the illusion will only hold up for a limited amount of time. We must move as quickly as possible."

"Where are the other two?" Sean interjects, looking worried. "They're five minutes late."

Charles frowns, realizing that Banshee is right. The other half of their group has failed to arrive. He throws his mind out like a net, and almost immediately picks up a bright flare to the north, followed by a flash of annoyance at his intrusion.

_"Hurry up," _he orders.

_"We're coming," _Wade's cheerful voice echoes back. "_Don't get your panties in a twist._"

Exasperated, he retreats. "They're almost here," he informs the rest of the group.

"They'd better be," Erik replies darkly. "We've lost enough time already."

It's true. They're frustratingly behind schedule. Not for the first time, he can feel the cold fingers of dread trail down his spine. They're all soaked and tired. Last week was a brutal race across the country to save a dangerous mutant from the even more dangerous hands of the government. They'd barely made it in time and even then, the terrified girl had almost killed them by bringing lightning straight down from the sky. They can't go on like this forever—constantly trying to keep the government from tagging mutants, raiding facilities to slow down the inevitable. They are exhausted—a small, ragtag band trying to hold back the ocean.

But they can't give up. That's the one truth he clings to with everything he has. They _are _making a difference. They are saving lives. If they stop now, it will all be over and the mutants will be rounded up, subjected to horrifying experiments, and then killed en masse.

Just like Erik predicted. Sometimes, he hates it when Erik is right.

"Hello, ladies," Wade's voice cuts through the silence of the clearing and the regen emerges from the trees, Remy close on his heels. "Did we miss the party?"

"Sorry we're late." Remy shoots a dark look at Wade. "This idiot got us lost."

Wade scoffs. "I believe that was _you, _card shark."

"Enough, both of you." Erik steps between them with a stern look before nodding at Charles, who takes a deep breath. He is the anchor of the group. It is imperative that he remains calm, no matter what, in spite of the sense of foreboding still clawing at his nerves.

"I was explaining that my illusion will only hold up for a limited amount of time. We have to be in and out of the base as quickly as possible. And it is _imperative _that you _don't touch anyone. _I can make people believe that they are touching something that is not there, but it's very difficult to trick their brains into believing that nothing is there if they bump into something solid. So, keep a wide distance and try not to disturb anything. If the illusion goes, we'll have to fight our way out, and that could result in unwanted casualties."

Wade snorts. "Unwanted for you maybe."

"We don't kill people, Wilson," Alex says sharply.

Charles catches Erik's eye, sees the quiet agreement there that always seems to triumph over the inner struggle. No killing: it's the biggest common space between them, one of the greatest sacrifices Erik made for their little "revolution." And that sacrifice probably saved his life, Charles is certain.

"Let's go," he says, breaking eye contact with Erik to pin the still-bickering Wade and Alex with a steely glare.

They both quiet immediately, slipping into professional mode. Now, there is no more time for jokes or arguing or uncertainties. They have a mission to complete.

Satisfied, Charles turns back to the tree line, once again slipping down into a crouch along the lip of the ridge. The rain is still beating down in an icy torrent, but he drowns it out, along with the mud and the combination of anxiety and determination humming through their little group. Now, there is just him and the images he is building in his head, the minds beneath him he is deceiving.

Two agonizing minutes and the illusion is firmly in place. Opening his eyes, fingers pressed tight against his temple, he sucks in a stuttering breath and whispers, "Go. You all know what to do."

The quiet command propels them forward, over the ridge. They descend the slope in a sprint, using the slick mud to boost their speed. He trails behind, stubbornly blotting out the vicious ache in his leg, the limp he's trying desperately to hide. He can feel Erik at his shoulder, a solid presence that he takes comfort in. They reach the field in a matter of seconds, and the swamp-soaked soil tugs at their boots. It isn't enough to hamper their progress and soon they're only a few feet from the guards.

Charles holds his breath as they slip past, tightening his concentration. The guards remain oblivious, staring out into the seemingly empty field as the mutants pass by mere centimeters from them. This is always the part that makes him afraid. It's like teetering on a knife edge, one step from the brink, and he's never quite grown accustomed to it.

Erik stops in front of the door, pressing his palms against the thick concrete. "Stand back," he orders.

Mindful of the oblivious guards, the group huddles in close. The door opens with a loud groan and Erik ushers them through with a whispered, "Hurry."

A long corridor stretches out before them, guarded by two men on either ends. Both stand silently, their gloved hands loosely gripping their weapons. They look bored, and Charles can only hope they stay that way.

"Fan out," he instructs as they walk briskly down the corridor. "Signal me when you've found it. Once you hear from me, everyone head for the rendezvous point. And _don't touch anyone._"

The door behind the guard opens with a wave of Erik's hand and they slip passed him in single file before silently fanning out into the maze of corridors surrounding them.

"I'm with you." Erik falls in step behind him as they round a corner.

Charles nods in quick assent, unwilling to divert any of his attention away from maintaining the illusion and monitoring his team. The corridor twists and bends, lit by ominously flickering lights. He can feel the men spread out through the base, going about their daily activities, and the team are bright points racing across his consciousness, darting from room to room as he follows the corridor through another turn.

The sight before him gives him pause and he feels the pain like an iron fist around his heart—both his own and Erik's. Several metal tables dot the open room before them and most are spotted with red. Mutants died here, he can feel it, and it cuts him like a knife.

This is the part that made him change his mind. He'll never forget the first base, reluctantly agreeing to Erik's harebrained scheme of trying to slow down the government by causing massive amounts of property damage. He remembers running through that first base, wreaking havoc without much organization, and finding a room just like this one. Just like this one, only there had been a cage with a mutant in it. A boy driven mostly insane by the monstrous experiments performed on him. A boy Charles could do nothing for except put him out of his misery by shutting down his tortured mind.

As he knelt in front of the boy's cage, feeling tears pouring down his cheek's as the other mutant's pain tore through his skull like a tempest, Erik was a silent shadow at his shoulder.

"_Do you see?" _He'd asked, and for the first time in his life, Charles wanted to use his power to kill someone.

"_Yes," _He'd whispered and that moment, that boy, had been his turning point. His ideals died in that room.

But he's still determined to be the better man. He won't become like these monsters, no matter how much sights like this make him want to.

"I hate this," Erik says, glaring at the tables and Charles can see them quivering, can feel Erik's anger like bitter metal in his mouth.

"Erik," he murmurs, knowing that these days it's all he needs to say.

The rest never needs to be spoken. They can feel it between them, echoing through the bond they've built alongside the trust.

_I'm here. I understand. But we're not like them. Remember, we can never become like them. _

Erik releases a shuddering breath, relaxing his fists. "I know. We don't have much time."

They keep running, breezing past the metal tables and the wicked instruments without another glance. He can feel his concentration beginning to fray. They _really_ don't have much time.

They head around another bend in the corridor and press themselves against the wall to avoid a pair of harried scientists rushing down the hall—their lab coats flapping noisily behind them. Once the men have rounded the corner, they move again, making their way toward the center of the base. Unfortunately for them, such sensitive information will probably be hidden away in one of the commander's highly inaccessible offices.

The flares are moving more quickly as his team picks up their pace, frustration driving them forward. He throws out a general air of calm, warning them against becoming sloppy. Sloppy usually means fatalities.

"We should be close, if the plans Raven sent us are correct," Erik mutters over his shoulder, ducking under some low hanging pipes.

"They have been so far," Charles murmurs back.

One final corner brings them to the wide doors leading into the center of the base, where the command center and the offices of the elite are located. A lone guard fiddles with his weapon, whistling softly to himself as he lazily scans the hallway. The two mutants split up, hugging opposite walls as they sidle passed the guard.

Charles has almost made it by when the guard suddenly decides to throw his rifle over his shoulder. Charles darts back a quick step, flinching when the barrel of the gun knocks against his shoulder. He feels the shock of surprise in the guard's mind and latches on to the man with desperate strength, filling in the cracks of the illusion around him. After a heart-stopping moment, the guard shrugs to himself and carries on with his tune.

Charles heaves a sigh of relief, but it's fleeting. His concentration is dissolving and he can feel the cracks at the corners of the illusion beginning to widen. The exhaustion and pain in his leg are distracting and the task of holding on to such strong minds as Whitlock and Stryker isn't easy on a good day.

Today is definitely not a good day.

"Are you alright?" Erik asks from his position in front of the door.

Charles nods tightly, blocking out the worry in his voice, and the guilt. There is always so much guilt, no matter how many times Charles insists it wasn't his fault. The bullet that lodged in his leg, shattering bone and damaging nerves, causing the pain that still plagues him three years later—he hasn't ever blamed Erik. The pain of Erik's past maybe, the brutality of humanity that has driven them all to the very brink, but never Erik. On that beach, he hadn't needed his telepathy to see Erik's pain and guilt. In that moment, he'd known for certain that his friend wasn't completely gone, in spite of their differences.

In the midst of his agony, he'd looked at Erik and seen hope, in spite of it all.

He could never blame his friend for that.

The door shifts under Erik's powers, opening with far less noise than the others.

"We need to split up," he says, taking a few steps closer to his friend. He can see Erik start to protest, but holds up his free hand. "We don't have time, Erik. I can't keep this up much longer."

Erik nods reluctantly, a frown cutting across his features. "Fine. But remember, Charles, I'll carry you out of here if I have to."

Charles cobbles together a wan smile. "I remember, old friend. Don't worry, I won't stand between you and your chance to ruin my dignity."

"Be careful," Erik warns, seeing right through him, as always. Sometimes, he wonders if Erik isn't secretly a telepath.

"I will."

They cross the threshold into the center of the base, heading down opposite corridors at close to a sprint.

Behind them, unseen, a tiny light on the floor begins blinking red.

Voices draw Charles along the hallway, ducking past several men leaving their offices. He knows he should be searching for the information, but Whitlock's office should be on Erik's side of the command center and somehow, he suspects that's where they'll find the documents they need. So, that gives him a small window of time to do a little eavesdropping on Whitlock and Stryker.

He turns the final corner cautiously, keeping close to the wall to avoid any unexpected people crossing his path. At last, he can see Stryker and Whitlock conversing in hushed, but harried tones. Pushing his mind a step further, he delves deeper into their consciousnesses, reading their thoughts.

_...alarm was triggered! We need to warn… _

_ …at last, I have them exactly where I want them, now I just have to… _

He reels back in shock. Alarm? They'd triggered an alarm? Raven hadn't warned them about any alarm…

Stryker and Whitlock start to move, barking orders to the men around them. "The alarm's been triggered. The mutants are here. Get ready, men!"

"Spread out and look for them. Be sure to capture them alive!"

_"I have it, Charles!" _Erik. Good. Good.

_"Get out of here, everyone! Run! They know we're here!" _

Surprise from the various members of his team crash into him, but he feels them respond. They'd prepared for situations such as this. They are all running for the exits, except …

_"I'm not leaving you, Charles." _

_ "Just run, Erik! Get the information to safety." _

_ "We can't let you be captured! You're the most important part of this organization!" _

_ "RUN, Erik! NOW!" _He gives Erik a mental shove and finally his friend starts to move, dodging the search teams spreading out through the base.

Charles takes a deep breath and steps away from the wall, clinging to the last fragments of his illusion as the chaos spreads. Just a few more seconds…

Sean is clear.

He has to hold on…

Alex and Remy are free.

Just a few…

Wade runs along the rooftop before jumping clear, landing safely in the muddy field.

Come on, come on, come on…

Erik bumps into a solider, but knocks out the man before he can raise an alarm. The door beckons him at the end of the corridor and he sprints for it, ignoring the pain at leaving his friend behind.

Come on, come on. Just …

Erik bursts free into the rain and Charles breathes a sigh of exhausted relief, letting go of the illusion.

It cracks and shatters around him as he slides down against the wall, trying to blend in as best he can. Now that his focus isn't spread so thin, he might be able to get out. A guard tears around the corner and screeches to a halt, gaping at him. So much for blending in, then. With a sharp sigh, Charles lunges forward, presses his fingers against the man's temple.

"Go to sleep."

The man crumples to the floor, and Charles pulls him into a small side corridor, tucking him behind a large pipe rising up from the floor. He can feel the panic thrumming through the base. The soldiers are afraid and trigger happy—brainwashed into thinking that mutants are something to be feared. They'll shoot first and ask questions later, he's certain, which isn't going to make escape easy.

Steeling himself, he steps back into the main corridor and runs right into a group of men heading toward the exits. They raise their weapons immediately, but Charles uses the same command and they fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs and guns. His leg is screaming at him, but he still tries to run, knowing he won't be able to keep this up forever.

Rounding another corner, he freezes when he feels Stryker's mind, frighteningly close. The man is like the eye of a storm, calm in the midst of all the chaos swirling around him. Stryker is be avoided, at all costs.

He slows to a walk and ducks behind some more water pipes as another group of soldiers rushes past. His mind is exhausted and his leg shoots pain through his nerves with every step. He knows he's limping, at the end of his rope, but he can't give up now. He can't give a man like Stryker the satisfaction.

Two more turns, three more men put to sleep, and the exit is in sight. He starts for it, feeling hope start to swell in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he'll actually walk out of here.

Danger flares and his fatigued mind picks up the trail end of a thought.

_Found you, freak. _

It's the only warning he gets before tranquilizer darts embed themselves deep into his neck. He gasps in pain and sinks to his knees. Black spots swirl in front of his vision, and he can feel his mind slipping away into darkness. As his cheek hits the floor, the last thing he sees is a pair of boots stop right next to his head.

The gun fires again with a quiet hiss and there's more pain, in his back. Choking on another heaving gasp, he surrenders to the darkness with a final thought hurled across space to the brightest spot in his mind.

_"I'm sorry, Erik. I've failed." _

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><p><strong>This story was going to be in two parts, but Erik is being pushy so I might expand it around four or five. Next part should be up soon. <strong>_  
><em>


	2. The Lost King

**So, this story has nearly doubled in length since my first post. . I really am in love with this fandom. I haven't written that much that fast in, well, ever. Hopefully a longer story is a good thing, right? Right? **

**Anyway, thank you all for the amazing response! Double digits, in everything, for one chapter! This story is breaking a whole lot of records for me. I'm not really sure how many parts it's going to be now, since I kind of poured it all out into one big document on word and now I'm trying to figure out how to break it up... **

**Yeah. **

**Expect around four or five, most likely. I'll shut up now. Feedback always appreciated!  
><strong>

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><p><em>"I'm sorry, Erik. I've failed." <em>

The words, echoing through his mind like thunder, bring his mad dash through the forest to a screeching halt. He grips on to a tree trunk to steady himself and fights down his rising surge of panic.

Charles didn't make it out.

Dear God, _Charles didn't make it out. _

Up ahead, the others have stopped as well, watching him with puzzled expressions.

"What's wrong?" Alex asks nervously.

He can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears, the wild pounding of his own heart. Words are a jumbled mess in his mind, thrown into chaos by the panic that's seizing every nerve in his body.

"Charles…" he manages at last. The rest of the sentences dies in his throat, lost beneath his heaving breaths, but Alex's eyes widen in alarmed understanding.

"No…" he whispers, twisting to look in the direction of the base. Sean looks equally devastated while Remy's eyes darken and Wade's jaw clenches—gloved fingers knotting slowly into a fist at his side.

"I'm going back," Erik decides, turning. "I'm not leaving him there."

"No!" Sean declares, taking half a step forward but withering beneath the force of Erik's glare.

"I hate to ruin your heroic rescue," Wade cuts in. "But we need to get that information to safety. You won't be doing him any good if you go rushing back in there like an idiot and end up all dead and stuff."

Erik briefly contemplates choking him with his own belt, but he reigns himself in. Wade is a good member of their team, and Charles would disapprove of him randomly killing anyone, let alone their own kind. But Wade just doesn't understand. He wasn't there on the beach. He didn't hold his best friend in his arms while he bled out into the sand—blue eyes tear-streaked and accusing.

He's failed Charles enough. He can't do it again.

"We'll come back for him," Alex says firmly, and he hates that he's so transparent. His concern is leaking from him like water, thickening the air of the small clearing.

"Yeah," Sean agrees, brightening. "We can get the info to safety and then work on a rescue plan."

"I think that sounds like a fine idea," Remy chimes in for the first time, fiddling with one of his blasted playing cards with dark but hopeful eyes. When it comes to Charles, in any shape and form, hope tends to be around in spades. The telepath spreads it like a disease.

Or maybe like a cure.

"Great!" Wade claps his hands together—loud in the solemn silence of the forest. "Plan decided. Can we keep moving now? Before the guards and their automatic weapons find us?"

They all turn to him, waiting for a decision, for a leader. He wants them to _stop _looking at him like that. He isn't their leader and he hasn't ever been. Charles is the rock and head of their merry band of mutants, and without him Erik feels as lost as the others. On his own—without Charles there to balance him out, root him down to the earth—he is reckless, impulsive, and halfway insane. He makes decisions without regard for the consequences, for his own life or others, and he can't do that now.

Charles would never forgive him.

So he takes a deep breath and asks himself what his friend would do in this situation.

The answer is simple, if not the one he wants. Charles was always so much better at doing his duty.

"Fine," he sighs at last, letting his anger, fear, and frustration out with the weary sound. "Let's go find Hank and the chopper."

His four companions nod, and he's glad that no one offers words of comfort or hope. He would probably kill them, Charles's feelings on the matter be damned.

They start running again, picking their way through the muddy forest at breakneck speed. Erik focuses on the future, on getting the plans to safety so he can move on to more important things, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't ignore the gaping hole at his side where Charles should be.

Hank is waiting for them at the edge of a field that runs into the mountains, leaning up against a stationary helicopter. He perks up when he sees them, squaring his massive blue shoulders and taking several steps toward them. They gather in a unorganized cluster in front of him, bent over as they struggle to catch their breaths. Except Wade, who pats Hank on the back with a tight grin and looks like he merely took a leisurely stroll through the forest instead of a mile long almost-sprint.

Erik's anger at him ups a notch.

Hank nods at Wade, scanning the group with sharp gold eyes that remind Erik of Raven. It's been forever since he's seen her, but for the first time he's glad she isn't here—that he won't have to tell her that her brother is now in the clutches of a madman.

Right. He's not thinking about that.

"Where's the Professor?" Hank growls, jerking him out of half-formed rescue plans.

Silence descends rapidly over the group as they exchange sad, hesitant glances. Unsurprisingly, it's Wade who speaks first.

"He didn't make it. Stryker got him. But don't lose your fur, we're mounting a rescue—" His words die off into a startled gasp as Beast grabs him around the neck, easily lifting him a few inches off the ground.

"Stryker?" The inventor snarls. "As in Colonel William Stryker? The military man who's rumored to be performing experiments on mutants?" He gives the choking martial artist a rough shake. "_That _Stryker_?" _

Wade nods, kicking his feet uselessly, and Beast shakes him again. "_You let him get the Professor?" _

The rest of the group watches in stunned silence, and it takes Erik a few precious seconds to remember that Charles isn't there to diffuse the argument. That's his job now.

"Hank, put him down!" the words feel foreign on his tone, and he hears Charles's voice echoing in his head instead of his own, but Hank still drops Wade into the soaked grass.

The regen coughs, massaging his throat with a slightly outraged look in Hank's direction. "If you had … let me finish, furball … I would've said … that we're … mounting a rescue … mission. Jeez."

Hank hardly looks contrite or even appeased, stalking around Wade toward Erik, and before the blue mutant even opens his mouth, Erik already knows what he's going to say. He doesn't have to be a telepath for this.

"You left him behind?"

"I didn't have a choice!" He snaps back, because he's never been as calm as Charles, even on his best days.

"You still left—"

"He wanted me to go!" He clenches his fists to keep from breaking the helicopter behind them in two.

Anger and desperation are coursing through his veins, choking him, and he can barely think of anything but Charles, helpless at Stryker's mercy. With a furious step forward, he locks eyes with Hank.

"Do you honestly think I would have left him behind if I had a choice?" he hisses.

Hank remains silent, but the answer is in the rigidity of his shoulders, the gleam in his eyes, the clawed hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

_You already left him once. _

It hurts because it's _true, _but it's also _over _and dwelling on it won't solve anything. He's learned firsthand how damaging holding on to the past can be, and he won't walk that road again.

"I'm going back for him," he continues. "As soon as I get the information to safety, I'm going back for him."

Hank's eyes search his for a long moment before the beast softens slightly, surrendering with a tight-lipped nod.

"We should go." Remy is facing the forest, a dark frown on his boyish features, and the group breaks their attention from the argument unfolding in front of them to scan the trees with worried eyes.

"For once, I agree with card shark." Wade picks himself up from the grass, and wipes his rain-soaked hair from his face with a gloved hand. "I think they're searching the forest. My danger senses are tingling."

Erik scoffs, but can't help agreeing. Turning on his heel, the metal manipulator strides toward the helicopter—the others trailing quickly in his wake. They pile in without a word, though Beast glares when Erik takes the co-pilot seat. It usually belongs to Charles or Alex, but today Erik merely glares back and the stony silence continues.

As the helicopter ascends into the cloudy sky, Erik stares down at the trees and feels despair sweep over him again as they fly off into the rain, leaving Charles behind.

But not for long. Not for good. Not this time.

"_Hold on, Charles. We're coming for you." _

He doesn't know if Charles can hear him, but if there's one thing he's learned from his friend, it's how to hope.

* * *

><p>"That's it … wake up…"<p>

The voice sounds far away, drifting to him across the black sea that covers his vision. He struggles to shake off the last vestiges of unconsciousness, instinctively stretching out his mental fingers in search of familiar presences, one in particular. If he'd passed out Erik must be beside himself from worry and frustration. His old friend had grown rather of protective of him since the beach, and he hated it when Charles pushed himself too far beyond his limits.

But instead of the well-known warmth and sparking light that is Erik, he feels coldness—icy hatred that makes him shiver when he brushes up against it. He recoils immediately, withdrawing back into his own mind and blinking open his heavy eyes. Bright light sears his retinas and he squeezes his eyes shut again with a startled gasp. Now that the world is coming back to him, he can feel heavy restraints biting into his skin.

"Good. You're awake." The same voice as before, the source of the ice. He vaguely remembers the voice, feels he should recognize it—that it's important.

Cutting off his mounting panic, he searches his memory for answers to his current predicament. He remembers the alarm, the shock, running through the base, the exit at the end of the hallway, the tranquilizer darts….

_Found you, freak. _

Oh, this is not good. Not good at all.

Something kicks his chair, startling him, and his eyes fly open again reflexively. The light is still blinding, but he bears it this time, squinting to make out the silhouette looming over him. At last, the man's features come into focus, and this time he feels no surprise.

Stryker.

The man smiles—sharp, like Erik's smiles used to be—and crosses his arms. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

Charles ignores him for the moment, intent on learning more about where he is. The walls around him are concrete and the chair he's strapped in is also bolted to the floor. Medical equipment is scattered around the room, most of it the stuff of nightmares, and the source of the brightness are medical lamps, he discovers, hanging over several tables.

Cold fear runs down his spine and all he can hear is Erik's voice, from long ago. _"What an adorable lab rat you make, Charles." _

Seems Erik is prophetic as well.

Stryker notices his wide-eyed gaze and his smile sharpens further. "State of the art equipment. Only the best for important research such as ours."

Charles pushes his fear away, reaching for the serenity he so often provided for others. He couldn't reveal anything, _especially _his power. No matter what they do to him, that must remain a secret. If they find out, they will only use it against him, or take it and wield it against others. He's seen that happen before, and it was a tragedy he wants to avoid happening again.

"Where … am I?" He croaks at last, wincing at the dryness of his throat.

Stryker shakes his head. "That's confidential, I'm afraid." He uncrosses his arms and takes a step forward, leaning into Charles's space with a charming, utterly false smile. "Actually, I was hoping we could talk about you instead."

Charles shrugs as best as he can with his arms pinned to the chair. "I'm not very interesting, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I beg to differ." Stryker leans in closer, pinning him with a hard stare that Charles struggles to match. "Anyone who can break into a government base and make fools out of highly trained soldiers is _very _interesting to me."

Charles holds his tongue. It's infuriating, this situation—having the ability to walk right out of this place unhindered, but knowing that he can't play that hand. He can't kill Stryker—he won't become a monster—so eventually Stryker will recover and then he will _know. _He will know and he'll have plenty of time to devise ways to combat Charles's ability.

That can't happen. He won't let it.

So he maintains his silence—his next best weapon.

Stryker frowns, a crack in his armor. "You have information I want, mutant. And you'll find I can be very … persuasive." He leans back on the last word, gesturing to all the glinting metal around him ominously.

Charles keeps his eyes locked on Stryker's, refusing to back down. Though that really is a lot of metal. Erik will have a field day with it, when he mounts a rescue. Because his comrade is stupid like that, and has no sense of self preservation whatsoever.

Stryker sighs, dropping his hand. He looks pained, but like Shaw it's all an act—a charming mask to hide the twisted monster underneath. He's seen so many monsters now, it isn't hard to recognize them anymore—even when they try to hide.

"Look, I know you're a part of that terrorist group—the one that keeps wreaking havoc on government bases, and hindering government work. Stealing mutants away before they can be properly registered, damaging government property, pilfering confidential information—quite a list of crimes. It'll be easier for you if you give me what I want."

Stryker's mind is humming with furious energy, he can feel it pressing against him when he cautiously extends another mental probe. He knows without a doubt it won't be easier for him. At best, he'll be killed once he's drained of his secrets.

He doesn't want to contemplate worst case scenarios.

"I won't give you anything," he murmurs, at last. Silence can only hold up for so long, and he's never been very good at it. Silence feels far too much like death for his tastes.

Stryker leans forward again, placing his hands on the chair restraining Charles, his face only inches from his captive's. "You sound so brave, mutant. And so stupid. Why cling to a pathetic cause that's doomed to fail? Your ragtag group of freedom fighters, or whatever you want to call yourselves, can't keep going forever. Sure, you have your powers, but we'll find ways of combating those." He lets the words hang between them as he moves back when Charles refuses to meet his eyes. "Speaking of powers, I'm also curious to learn about yours."

Charles repeats his earlier shrug. "Like I said, I'm not very interesting."

Stryker smirks and Charles feels dread creeping through his veins. He can sense Stryker's smug superiority—as if the man knows something he doesn't, and the very idea terrifies him more than he cares to admit.

"I have my suspicions, mutant, but I'd prefer to know for certain."

"No." Charles wishes he felt as brave as his voice sounds.

Stryker shakes his head, a grim smile darkening his face. "Very well." He ambles over to the desk and presses a button. Charles watches, the dread amassing into a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. "We'll do things the hard way."

Several men and women in lab coats hurry into the room, pushing what looks to be a large tank of water, and he swallows reflexively, the fear settling in beside the dread. Stryker is smiling again, sharp as knives, and waves at the tank dramatically.

"I think I can get you to tell me what your power is. Shall we find out?"

His protests lock up in his throat, and all he can do is stare as the lab assistants get the tank situated. He briefly contemplates fighting as one of them strides toward him, holding a pair of thick metal cuffs, but he can't win here and revealing his abilities will have far-reaching consequences for more people than just himself. So he keeps himself still and calm as the man restrains his hands behind his back and hauls him to his feet. His legs shake from a lack of use and pain screams through his left. He grits his teeth and bears it as they haul him toward the tank.

"Let's see how long your silence can hold up, mutant." Stryker nods to his assistants and without any further warning, they grab the back of his neck and force his head under the water.

The cold hits him like a slap in the face, and he suppresses the urge to gasp. The hands keep an iron grip on his neck and shoulders, but he thrashes desperately as survival instincts kick in. The seconds tick by and his lungs begin burning, screaming for oxygen. He tries again to break free, but the hands merely push him deeper under. Black spots dance in front of his vision and he can feel unconsciousness beckoning.

How long has it been? A minute? Five?

He can't breathe. He needs to breathe, needs to breathe, needstobreatheneedsto_breathe… _

"_STOP!" _He screams as loudly as he can, reaching for the minds of his captors and applying every ounce of pressure his oxygen-starved brain can manage. They release him with cries of shock and anguish, gripping their heads.

It's the first time he's used his power to cause physical harm, but as he rears back, out of the water, and collapses to the concrete floor, sucking in large gulps of air, he can't bring himself to care.

"So," Stryker sounds of out breath, as well, but still horribly smug. "A telepath. That's interesting.."

Suddenly, Charles realizes exactly what he's just given away. "No," he chokes out, twisting to look up into Stryker's dark smile and burning eyes. He can feel the other man's triumph and despair wells in his own heart.

What has he just done?

But…

His hand has been forced from him. Stryker knows, and so he longer has to hide, and if he doesn't have to hide he _can _walk out of here. Mustering his strength, he pushes himself up onto his knees and locks gazes with Stryker again, concentrating on the man's mind, on submitting it to his will.

Unfortunately, he's still dizzy from a lack of oxygen and in pain, and so he fails to notice one of the lab assistants moving.

"Go to—" The order is cut off by a sharp blow across his temple from one of the medical trays.

His vision explodes in a burst of white, and then blackness descends again as he crumples to the floor at Stryker's feet.


	3. Strategy

**I continue to be blown away by the response to this story. You guys are awesome. That is all. **

* * *

><p>He peers across the table at the girl he used to know. It's been nearly a year since he's last seen her, and he only wishes their reunion was under different circumstances. She's a redhead today, he notes with an inner smile, and her dress is a dazzling blue. It's as close as she can get to her natural form in the public setting of the restaurant.<p>

More than anything else, he hates that they have to hide.

"Where's Charles?" She asks in a clipped tone, and her shoulders are tense as she folds her hands on the table. "You sounded urgent over the phone."

He fiddles with his napkin, finding himself unable to meet her piercing hazel eyes. "I just asked if you wanted to grab a coffee while you were in New York."

"Erik," she barks in warning, and he steels himself.

"There was a … problem during the mission. We tripped a silent alarm that wasn't on the plans."

Raven sucks in a sharp breath and when he chances a look, her eyes are wide and horrified. She opens her mouth—no doubt to utter apologies—but he shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter. We were careless. They must have upgraded after you gave us the plans. Anyway, we were in the command center when the alarm went off, I guess. Charles and I had split up to search for the information. I had just located it when I heard his voice telling everyone to run. I tried to go back for him, but he refused to let me. He maintained the illusion long enough for us to get out, and then he was captured."

Raven curls her hand into a fist against the scratched table surface, and bows her head. "Charles…" she whispers, devastation on her beautiful face, as she takes a moment to fear for her brother—the only family she has left, the man she refused to abandon, even when his ideals no longer perfectly aligned with hers.

But just as quickly, she builds up her walls again, and when she lifts her head from the table there is only strength in her eyes.

If he needs any sign that she's grown up, he couldn't have asked for a better one.

"Who has him?"

A fresh slice of pain and fear cuts into his heart. "Stryker."

"What?" She cries, and several patrons in the restaurant turn their heads curiously.

He gives them what he hopes passes for a polite smile, and leans over the table to her. "Keep it down. Yes."

"Sorry," she mutters, blushing slightly. "I just can't believe Stryker got him." She rubs a hand over her temple—fear alight in her eyes. "This isn't good, Erik."

"You don't have to tell me that," Erik snaps before taking a deep breath—not wanting to let his frustrations over his own failure out on her.

She looks mildly contrite and an awkward pause descends between them. Typically, she is the first to bounce back. In that, she's still the same.

"How are we going to get him back? If he's with Stryker, we don't have much time."

"Stryker. What do you know about him?" Erik asks instead of answering. He's not ready to share his crazy, half-formed plans with her just yet.

She arches an eyebrow. "I briefed you guys on him last year, remember?"

He shrugs. "Vaguely." Charles usually insists on being the one to keep track of the mad scientists—in spite of Erik's protests. Erik often lets it slide, however, because he knows what Charles is trying so hard to protect him from.

Now, though, he sees he should have paid closer attention. "I remember you saying that he was incredibly dangerous—borderline crazy. I know he's the one who came up with the tagging and monitoring system for mutants, and he's been rumored to be performing experiments."

Essentially, another Shaw. Just what the world needs—someone else to ruin it.

Raven seems slightly appeased when she leans back in her chair with a nod. "Yeah. He's a 'consultant' for the CIA, in a nutshell. He's directly under the military, but he advises the mutant division on new information. I know he has several facilities, and that there is proof of him performing experiments on mutants, like you said—though no one can prove anything. Typical. From what I've seen of him, he's obsessed with hunting our kind and turning us into weapons. If he discovers what Charles can do…" She trails off, curling her fingers tightly around her glass, and Erik understands.

She's only confirming what he already feared.

"I need you to find out where his facilities are, and which one he probably has Charles at," he says, using his "commander" voice, as Charles jokingly dubbed it. Raven straightens immediately—her eyes sparking back to life.

"Of course."

"And I need the information within twenty-four hours. Can you handle that?"

Raven smirks, and he once again sees how much she's grown up. "Please. I've been shredding files and attending meetings for the past two and a half years. I need a little excitement in my life. Don't worry about it."

Erik nods in acceptance, not only because he trusts her, but he knows how much she loves Charles. She'll move heaven and earth to bring her brother back safe and sound—just like he will.

He slaps a few bills on the table and stands while Raven takes a long swig of her drink. He's shrugging on his coat, already heading for the door, when she calls after him across the nearly empty bar.

"Erik." He stops, twisting to look at her questioningly. She meets his stare with a mixture of determination and worry etched across her face. "Bring him back."

"I will," he promises and means it with every bone in his body.

* * *

><p>He wakes up in a glass room, just like the one on Shaw's submarine. The first thing he notices is the suffocating silence. For the first time he can remember, he's completely and utterly trapped in his own head. It's a surreal sensation, and an unpleasant one. In fact, it feels remarkably like being deaf, dumb, and blind—totally cut off from the world.<p>

He wants to pound on the glass and scream his head off, just to release all the anger he's got building inside of him, just to escape the silence.

"Ah, good," Stryker's voice filters in through hidden speakers, startling him.

He goes still in the middle of the room, staring bleakly at his haggard reflection in the glass. He's still dripping wet and his hair falling in his too pale face makes him look like a half-drowned dog.

Which is probably exactly how Stryker sees him.

"I can't tell you enough how excited I am to meet another telepath," Stryker continues pleasantly. "I've been waiting for one of you for a long time."

"Another telepath?" Charles asks before he can stop himself, his innate curiosity getting the better of him.

Stryker's smug smile permeates his voice. "Why yes. You'll be meeting him soon, actually. He's in desperate need of some company and you should be adequate. I actually built this room for him."

Charles glances around at the glass prison and tries to imagine being trapped in here forever, shivering. He'd gladly choose death over such a silent, lonely future.

"But before that, I was hoping we could discuss your mutant friends and your inclination toward terrorist activities."

"I'd rather not, thank you." Charles straightens and stares defiantly up into the security camera blinking in the corner of the small room.

Stryker chuckles. "So polite for a monster. I'm impressed."

"I only see one monster here, Stryker, and it's you," Charles replies coldly.

He understands a little better now, the hatred that Erik still carries buried inside of him. He could easily come to hate Stryker with the same vengeance.

"You creatures are a disease!" Stryker snarls—finally losing some of his composure. "A blight on this earth, a threat to mankind that must be neutralized."

"Mutation is not a disease," he argues back, crossing his arms. "And we're people, no less than you. We fight because we have to, because you brought it to our doorstep. Forcibly tagging and monitoring mutants, whisking them away to secret facilities in order to perform hideous experiments on them, _killing _them—how can we not fight back? Do you really expect us just to lay down and die?"

"So you blow up buildings and put innocent men at risk?"

"We have never harmed anyone!" Charles yells back, feeling the anger swell in his guts, cutting him up inside. "We have never killed anyone! We are not like you, Stryker, and you know it." He raises his chin defiantly. "We're the better men. Hate us all you like, but at the end of the day, you and your so-called innocent men are the monsters here. Not too long ago, we nearly died to protect this country. We would live in peace, but you and the government insist on hunting us like animals!"

"_Enough_!" Stryker roars, submitting defeat.

In the heavy silence that follows, Charles keeps his grim satisfaction to himself, never moving his gaze from the blinking camera as he waits for Stryker to make his next move.

"You're still being stubborn," Stryker says at last, calm once more. "Perhaps you need a little more persuading."

The door to his glass cell creaks open and for a brief glorious instant he can feel the world beyond, thrumming with energy. Then, the door slams shut, locking him back in the silence with two burly guards who regard him with malicious smiles. He can sense their anger and fear without having to read their minds. It leaks from every pour, infecting the very air.

They fear him, and so they hate him, and they are here to hurt him to satisfy that hatred.

"I'll be back in an hour," Stryker's voice crackles over the intercom. "Maybe you'll be a little more talkative then."

Charles takes a deep breath and raises his palms in submission. "Please, chaps, there's no need for this. I'm not going to hurt you. I—"

The first guard moves in a blur of motion, raising his club, and a hot streak of agony explodes across his cheek. The vicious blow throws his head to the side and sends him staggering back into one of the walls. He presses up against the cool surface, using it to steady himself, as the guards approach again.

The next blow sends him to the floor and the one after that cracks a rib. He closes his eyes and hangs on, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

The next hour passes in a blur of agony.

* * *

><p>Twenty-four hours later, Raven meets him in a secluded spot near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge.<p>

"Well?" He asks as soon as she joins him on the railing.

She sweeps red hair behind her ears and looks out at the East River with tired eyes. "Stryker has numerous facilities that his department operates, but there's one in Montana—in the Rockies, near the Canadian border. I think that's where he's keeping Charles."

"You _think_?" He turns to her with a dubious frown and she crosses her arms defensively.

"Alright, I'm about ninety percent sure. How's that?"

"And if you're wrong?" He presses, because it's been two days and he can feel the hands on the clock ticking faster and faster towards oblivion.

"Then we search other bases." Her expression is confident when she faces him fully. "But I'm pretty sure this is where Charles is. It's his most remote, most secure base, and there aren't many people around for a telepath to contact."

Erik's frown deepens. "Stryker doesn't know Charles is a telepath."

"We can't be sure of that," Raven counters grimly. "We can't be sure of anything."

The words are ominous, echoing in his already troubled heart, and it takes a great deal of effort to shake them aside. Charles doesn't have time for them to be doubting, and he _refuses _to carry a body out of that base. He's lost so much already. He won't lose Charles.

"Give me the coordinates for the base."

She slips a piece of paper into his hand, and her fingers linger on his wrist, heavy and hot against his skin. When his eyes trail up to her face, she's biting her lip and looking fierce in the dying sunlight. He wonders not for the first time if he could grow to love her someday.

"I'll bring him back," he repeats his earlier promise—far more tenderly than he intended.

She squeezes his wrist once before letting him go. "I know."

He leaves her alone by the railing—the sunset on fire at her back and pooled bright in her worried eyes.

* * *

><p>When at last they leave him, bleeding in a heap on the floor, he's almost grateful for the coolness of the glass against his throbbing cheek. Breathing slowly to minimize the pain in his ribs, he takes stock of his injuries. One eye is nearly swollen shut, his lip is split, he has at least three broken ribs, his right wrist is broken, his left knee is aching, and he's covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe.<p>

All in all, not a pretty sight. He doubts he'll even be able to push himself up from the floor.

"Oh, dear," Stryker's voice says suddenly, but this time Charles merely closes his eyes and steels himself for the next round. "It looks like they got a little carried away."

He huffs out a bitter laugh, feeling blood coat the inside of his mouth. "Just … a little."

"So, are you inclined to talk now?"

"No," he wheezes, open his eyes and levering himself up into a sitting position using his good arm. Hugging his damaged wrist to his stomach, he peers up at one of the cameras. "I'm afraid … not."

It's time Stryker realized that he's fighting a losing battle. He will never talk, there is too much at stake: the underground railroad for mutants they've constructed, the mansion, full of lost children, the strike teams that count on him to lead them, the friends who put their lives on the line again and again to save others.

Erik, who's finally let go of his hatred and anger, who is embracing something close to peace for the first time in decades.

No, he would rather die a thousand deaths than give them into the hands of a monster like Colonel William Stryker.

Stryker's sigh rattles through the intercom in a long burst of static. "Then I suppose it's time for you to meet a long term resident of this facility. I think you should enjoy his company."

The door opens again and a new set of guards enter. He winces as they grab his arms and pull him roughly to his feet, half dragging him toward the door. As they step out into a dimly lit hallway, the world crashes back into his head like a bullet train. His knees go weak from the force of it and the guards tighten their grip with irritable glares.

He thinks again about escape, but he's too weak now. He can barely walk, and without knowing the layout of the facility, he'll surely stumble headlong into more danger. They've planned it this way, he realizes, as the guards turn down a side hallway. Torture him until he's too weak to use his powers before releasing him from his cell, it's a tad brilliant he has to admit, in a sick kind of way.

They seem practiced at this—the lab assistants, the guards. It's further proof of the nightmares that have occurred in this place.

He wonders how long he's been imprisoned here. Days? Weeks? The torture has seemed relentless since he arrived—only ceasing during his intervals of unconsciousness. How long do they plan on keeping him alive? How much is he worth? Will they experiment on him like they have others?

These questions buzz in his head as the guards crank open another metal door. So much metal. It's reassuring, a reminder that somewhere out there Erik is mounting a rescue effort. His friend must be going insane with worry and he feels bad about that. His last communication wasn't exactly reassuring.

Making a split-second decision, he concentrates—intent on trying to reach Erik. Before he can project his mind out, however, the guards shove him forward. He impacts harshly with the concrete, setting his injuries on fire, and this time he cannot keep a cry from escaping his throat. The guards shut the door behind him without another word.

Fighting his way through a haze of pain, he glances around the room as another presence registers. He'd been too focused on Erik to sense it earlier, but now it nearly overwhelms him. The room is blinding white and it's almost impossible to tell where the walls end and the ceiling begins. In the corner sits a boy, regarding him with a solemn expression and mismatched eyes. Briefly, he's reminded of a bar and another pair of similar eyes, back when the world was still innocent and he still stood on top of it.

So long ago.

"Hello," he says, fixing himself firmly in the present. Finding a boy here is not what he expected, and his anger at Stryker spikes up another notch. "Who are you?"

The boy remains quiet, but Charles can feel probing, trying to get inside his head. He's powerful, his mental pokes like a sledgehammer against Charles's skull and the telepath lets out a small gasp of pain, reaching for his temple with his good hand. He gathers his strength and shoves the boy out as firmly, but gently, as possible.

A wave of surprise ripples off the boy, a startled _"How?" _echoing through his head.

He tries to smile, but it feels shaky and barely taped together. "We're a lot a like, it would seem."

To his surprise, the boy snarls and rises from his sitting position. _"Stop it!" _The mental shout is deafening and Charles hunches in on himself to escape the sound. _"Get out of my head!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Poor Charles. He just can't seem to catch a break, can he? He's my favorite character, though, I swear.<br>**

**As a sidenote, I'm debating doing a one-shot series revolving around this AU, building a little more back story, etc. Is that something you guys would be interested in?  
><strong>


	4. Between Black & White

**A huge thanks to everyone who has responded to this story and this AU. You guys ROCK. **

**Only two more chapters to go. :( **

**I've had a lot of requests to make this a long story, but every time I think about extending it, my muse goes "NO, it's perfect the way it is! Don't touch it!" I don't argue with my muse. I always lose. **

**So, The King's Gambit will end at six chapters, BUT I have decided to do a one-shot series. :D I was surprised by how many people said they would like to read more stories within this AU, and I love writing about it so I'm happy to oblige.  
><strong>

**The one-shot series will focus on the back story of this AU - why Erik came back, how Raven came to be working for the CIA as Moira, how Gambit and Wade and others joined, how the underground railroad got started, what caused Charles to abandon his dream of peace co-existence, yadda, yadda, yadda. Some of the one-shots in the series will flow into each other to create mini-multichaptered fics within the larger fic (like those babushka dolls from Russia.) if that makes any sense. **

**Overall, I think it will be a fun journey and experiment, as I've never written anything like this before, so we'll see how it goes. =3**

**For now, I'll stop jabbering and let you read. Yeah. **

* * *

><p>"Are you freaking insane?"<p>

Erik crosses his arms over his chest and stares calmly at Wade. The ex-mercenary immediately shakes his head. "Never mind, I know the answer to that. But still, this a whole new kind of crazy, even for you. Right?"

Wade glances around at the others gathered in the study with varying degrees of uncertainty evident on their faces.

"Let me get this straight," Alex pipes up from his place by the fireplace. "You want us to break into a fortified government base, located in the _Rocky Mountains, _without our telepath to create illusions for us."

"Yes," Erik replies immediately.

"That's not the part I care about," Wade picks up again. "I'm all down for a good fight. It's about time, to be honest. No, what I'm worried about is the guy who's in charge of the base."

"Stryker," Hank growls darkly, and Wade snaps his fingers.

"Exactly. Colonel William Stryker, a.k.a. military psychopath who likes cutting up mutants and seeing how they tick. No thanks. I'd rather die in the most agonizing way possible than spend any time in his company."

"I'm with him," Remy cuts in. "I was a prisoner of Stryker's for six months before one of your raids freed me. I'm _never_ going back to that again."

"Well Charles is stuck out there with him right now," Erik snaps, forcibly suppressing the urge to send the metal pens on the desk flying at their heads and seeing how quickly they change their minds. "And every day we waste is more time he spends suffering. It's been four days. We can't afford to waste any more time."

A pregnant pause falls in the wake of his words before Hanks steps forward. "I'm in," he says firmly and Erik nods in response.

"Me too," Sean and Alex chime in simultaneously.

"There's no way I'm leaving the Professor with a guy like Stryker," Sean adds with a shudder.

Satisfied, Erik turns to the two remaining members—who's help he arguably needs the most.

Wade lets loose a long suffering sigh. "Fine. I guess the chance to beat up some baddies outweighs potential capture for the time being."

"Remy?" Erik questions quietly, watching the other man's inner struggle play across his face.

"I don't ever wanna go near Stryker again," he murmurs at last. "But it's the Professor, and the Professor saved my life. I owe him this. So I guess I'm going."

A small smile of satisfaction tugs on Erik's lips as he nods to Remy in gratitude. He knows how hard it can be to face the tormentors of your past.

The team gathers in a small ring around him as he hands the piece of paper to Hank. "You're flying."

Hank dips his head in assent, flicking his gaze down to the coordinates. "It shouldn't be a problem."

Confident in the furred mutant's abilities, Erik focuses his attention on the rest of the waiting group, motioning for them to circle in closer. "Now listen up. Here's the plan."

* * *

><p>"Please … calm down," he reaches for the boy, trying to placate, but the child just flinches away, glaring at him.<p>

"_I said, __**stop it**__." _

Suddenly, the room around them shifts and changes. Charles nearly gapes as he finds himself sitting on the floor of his bedroom in the mansion. So the boy is an illusionist, and a good one at that, but he can't be allowed to continue. This is dangerous territory they're straying into.

"_Enough." _Charles orders and the room bleeds back to white as the boy stares furiously at him. _"That's enough." _

"_I told you to get out of my head!" _

The room melts away again, morphing into a dark hallway. Charles looks around in alarm and a bit of frustration. _"Please," _he calls to the boy, who stands at the end of the corridor. "_I just want to talk to you." _

"_I don't want to talk to you!" _And the boy begins to run. Charles curses and tries to dispel the illusion, only to find that he can't. The boy has successfully trapped him inside his own mind. Interesting, if not a bit frightening.

Seeing no other option, the telepath breaks into a run, realizing for the first time that the pain of his injuries is gone. Even the familiar ache in his left leg has dissipated and he's able to sprint with the same strength and power he did when training to take down Shaw. He rounds a corner, searching for the boy, and freezes.

Erik stands in his path.

"Erik?" He breathes in shock. His rational mind knows that his friend isn't real—merely an image the strange boy ripped from his mind—but his heart can't help a stutter at the sight of a comrade in this dismal place.

"You're pathetic, Charles," Erik says, and he feels like he's been sucker punched.

Erik's voice is cold, and his eyes are the same as they were when he was facing down Shaw. Something glints in the light of the hallway and Charles stiffens in horror when he sees a familiar coin idly circling around Erik's fingers. "So full of foolish ideals. You're a liability to this cause."

"Erik…"

_It's not real. Not real. Remember that. It's _not real.

Erik grins, dark and twisted, and the coin floats up to eye level. "So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to count to three, and then I'm going to move the coin. One…"

Charles's heart seizes in his chest—the same fear that plagued him on the beach rising up to choke the life from him. He almost begins pleading as he did back then, desperately trying to get his friend to see the agony he's about to inflict on him, but rage surges alongside the fear.

He won't let this happen. Not again. Never again.

_"__**Stop it!" **_He roars, reaching for the boy with everything he has.

The room flickers back to white briefly before the boy roars back and everything changes to a forest. He recognizes this place, he realizes with a jolt. Turning to his right, he sees Erik again—this time crouched against a tree, hand pressed over a bloody wound on his side. The scene flickers again and suddenly he sees himself crouching next to Erik, bleeding too, but much more sluggishly, fingers pressed to his temple as he desperately tries to keep the rest of their attackers at bay.

This was a failed base raid, one year ago. A raid that had nearly killed them. He still has scars from where the bullets grazed him.

The boy is accessing his memories.

"Let it go, Charles," the image of Erik says to his past self. "You're going to kill yourself."

"I can't let them get to us," his past self rasps. "There's too many of them, Erik. They'll kill us if they find us."

Erik laughs grimly. "I think we're going to die anyway."

"No," his past self barks, "we're not."

Erik chuckles again and reaches out, pulling past Charles down into the dirt with him. His past self's hand falls limply to his side as his concentration is broken. "I swear, Charles," Erik smiles ruefully, "you're becoming as bad as me."

His past self mimics the smile, nudging Erik in the shoulder. "Well, someone has to look out for us, my friend."

Companionable silence falls over the forest, and Charles remains rooted to his spot, watching the scene unfold with a tightness in his chest he can't explain.

"I'm sorry," Erik says suddenly, turning to face his past self.

The other Charles frowns, moving his bangs out of his eyes with blood slicked fingers. "For what?"

"For dragging you into all this. You were never meant for this."

His past self smiles, warm and soft, and it's strange, watching himself caught in such an open, vulnerable moment. "My friend, I came with you willingly and even if we die here in this God forsaken forest, I will never regret it."

"You deserve better," Erik insists.

"You do, too, but life is rarely fair," his past self counters, still smiling.

Erik shakes his head, but a smile is growing on the edges of his mouth, just as warm and open, and Charles can feel the peace hanging thick in the air.

He has tears in his eyes, he realizes, and he's allowed the boy to see enough of his heart.

_"Stop this," _he half orders, half begs. _"I'm not trying to hurt you. Please."_

* * *

><p>Erik stares at the paneled ceiling of his room with unseeing eyes. Three days of planning and they're finally ready. At daylight, Hank will fly them west to storm Stryker's compound and rescue their resident telepath.<p>

Tomorrow will be the seventh day of Charles's absence. It feels like a lifetime.

If there's one thing he's learned from this whole experience is that he no longer knows how to function without Charles at his side. A part of him wants to hate that dependency—so weak and terribly _human—_but he can't bring himself to because Charles is…

He can remember clearly standing on the doorstep of the mansion, six months after leaving his friend bleeding on a beach. The words are locked in his throat and he doesn't know how he'll find an apology strong enough to cleanse away the sins he's committed.

Charles opens the door and for a moment the world holds its breath. Then, Charles _smiles—_tired and pale but no less warm than it's always been, and all the petty words dry up in Erik's throat.

He doesn't have to say anything, he realizes. Charles forgives him.

He made Charles help him commit murder, then got him shot, then practically left him to die—all within the span of an hour—and Charles _forgives _him.

The rest is a blur, but he remembers tears—remembers all of his anger and pain and guilt pouring out of him in a long wave—and chess, and the realization that Charles will be living in pain for the rest of his life and _doesn't blame him for it. _He remembers "welcome home" and "stay" and "I've missed you" and "it wasn't your fault."

He remembers winning the game, giving up the war, looking across the chessboard to the first person to see him as something other than Shaw's monster and whispering "yes, yes, yes" until it's burned a brilliant line across the darkness in his soul.

He remembers the light flooding in and feeling free for the first time in decades, and through it all Charles's smile and mind circling around his own is bright as sunlight, full of the promise of the future.

With a ragged sigh, Erik drags himself back to the present, pushing himself off the bed and heading down to the kitchen. Sleep is beyond him and his mind keeps offering up scenarios of what Charles might be suffering. He remembers saying, years ago, something along the lines of: "_what an adorable lab rat you make, Charles" _and he shudders at the memory.

Rummaging around in the fridge, he blindly pulls out a carton of ice cream and sinks down at the table. He's never had much of a taste for sweets, but Charles loves the stuff, and got him a little addicted to it over the course of their late night conversations. Normally, he would go and sit on the roof with Charles—ice cream carton between them as they talk about anything that crosses through their minds and look at the stars and try to forget—but right now he's too haunted to move.

"So that's where all the ice cream keeps disappearing to." He jumps at the voice and twists in his chair to see Wade Wilson standing casually in the doorway.

"What are you doing up?" he asks gruffly and watches warily as Wade ambles over to the cutlery drawer and pulls out a spoon for himself. Ignoring Erik's glare, the regen plops down opposite him and reaches for the carton resting on the table.

"I could ask the same for you," he replies, scooping himself a large spoonful. "But I think I know the answer."

Erik scoffs and stares down at the well-worn table.

"You worry too much," Wade continues though a mouthful of ice cream. "The Prof will be fine."

Erik's spoon bends beneath his fingers. "You don't know what it's like," he snarls.

"To be an experiment?" Wade questions with a quirk of an eyebrow. "No," his voice goes quiet. "I don't." He twirls his own spoon slowly—ice cream momentarily forgotten. "I've never been experimented on, thank God." Erik feels his anger swelling.

"_But," _Wade presses as Erik's eyes narrow dangerously, "I do know what it's like not to be considered a person. To be seen as little more than a weapon. Why do you think I'm so crazy? When you're treated as nothing more than violence with skin on … well, you tend to become violence with skin on, if you catch my drift." He smiles and it's sad, serious—so unlike the persona he normally projects.

"Yeah," Erik has to admit, remembering Shaw, remembering the years spent believing he was little more than a weapon until Charles jumped into the ocean to save him from drowning and ended up changing his life. "I do."

Wade finally turns back to the ice cream, but his eyes remain solemn. "He saved my life, too, you know."

"I know. I was there. You tried to kill us."

Wade chuckles darkly. "Violence with skin on, remember? I'd just run away from the government. I figured my days were numbered. But the Professor, he…" The ex-assassin trails off, a struggle crossing his face.

"Saw you as something different?" Erik guesses, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's having a heart-to-heart with _Wade Wilson_, of all people, over a bowl of ice cream at three in the morning.

Wade's constant chatter usually grates on his nerves, but tonight he's beginning to see that beneath the surface they have a lot in common.

Wade laughs—disbelieving and with a tint of wonder—and not for the first time, Erik gets a glimpse of the effect Charles's compassion has on people. "Exactly. Not even my own family saw me as more than a monster. But the Professor, he saw something I didn't even think _existed._ Kind of freaky now that you think about it," he adds with a sardonic grin.

Erik returns the sharp smile, recalling the shock of the first time he'd heard Charles in his head. "A little."

Charles's capacity for love and understanding is his greatest power, Erik has come to realize. With it, he can move mountains, can convince sin-coated monsters like him and Wade to turn their faces back to the light, and even after three years, Erik is in awe of it.

Wade sets down his spoon with a determined look. "Well, tomorrow we need to haul his butt back here and chain him to a chair or something, because we're all pathetically hopeless without him."

Erik chuckles. "I agree."

"And violently murder anyone who's hurt him so no one will think about doing it again."

"Charles may not approve of that," Erik argues half-heartedly. He'd like more than anything to rip Colonel William Stryker's head from his shoulders for daring to hurt their leader, but he's disappointed Charles enough to last a lifetime.

Wade shrugs blithely. "What he doesn't know can't hurt him."

"That doesn't work with a telepath," Erik points out.

"_Fine_," Wade huffs. "We'll _almost _violently murder anyone who's hurt the Professor so no one will think about doing it again."

"Sounds like a plan to me." Erik shares another razor-edged smile with Wade.

This is the part of them that Charles can't understand—the corner of their souls, no matter how small, that will always be stained with violence. Charles has had the luxury of a peaceful life, but people like him and Wade were forged in fire and pain and the embers will endure throughout the years.

Erik stands, moving to put the ice cream in the fridge. "Well, I guess I'll try to get a little sleep. You?"

"Nah." Wade waves his hand dismissively. "I think I'm going to sharpen my swords or something."

"I don't understand your attachment to those things," Erik mutters as he shuts the freezer door.

"They're memorable," Wade insists almost petulantly and Erik shakes his head.

He bids the former assassin goodnight and trudges up the stairs to his room. When he lays back down in his bed, sleep still refuses to come but his heart no longer feels like it's trying to claw its way out of his chest.

* * *

><p>The scene around Charles changes again and the boy is in front of him, regarding him with wary eyes. <em>"Why aren't you attacking me?" <em>

Feeling his heart ache for this lost child, Charles shakes his head. _"I would never attack you." _

The boy tilts his head to the side curiously. _"Not even when I do this?" _

He screams as the boy batters against his mind with the force of what feels like a thousand sledge hammers. The agony sends him crashing to his knees, clutching his head with both hands and trying not to retch. The scene before him flickers wildly before settling into another dismal room—this one full of lab equipment.

Dear God, what has this boy lived through?

"_No_," he replies brokenly when the dizziness settles. "_I won't hurt a child." _

He hears footsteps and when he looks up through blurry eyes, the boy is right in front of him, watching with a puzzled expression. _"You're not like the others." _

_"What others?" _

_ "The ones he brings here. They all just go crazy. Most of them try to kill me. He says I drive them mad. But you're not like them." _

A thousand questions rise up at the boys' words, but Charles tamps them down, sensing this isn't the time. _"That's a good thing, though, right?" _

The boy's expression softens minutely. _"Yeah. I think so." _

Sucking in a pained breath, Charles rights himself and extends a trembling hand. _"If you'll let me, I'll take us somewhere nicer than this place." _

The child hesitates, staring at him suspiciously. Charles scoots a few inches closer, rising to his knees so he's eye level with the boy. _"I won't hurt you. I promise. And if I try to, you can probably stop me. You're stronger than I am." _

This seems to satisfy the boy, and he carefully rests his small hand in Charles's palm. He can't be more than eight or nine, and that knowledge tears at Charles's heart. He pushes that aside, too, into the same box he's locked the pain in, and focuses on building a new scene around them.

A few seconds later, they're sitting in a meadow, mountains rising in the distance and trees and flowers dotting the landscape. A gentle summer breeze blows across the tall grass and the boy looks around in wonder.

"_Where … where are we?" _

Charles smiles, feeling the serenity he's been desperately missing finally wash over him. "_In a place I used to come when I was your age. It was one of my favorite places in the whole world." _

_"It's really pretty." _

_ "Yes, it is." _

The boy runs his fingers over the grass and peers up into the blue sky. He looks like he's discovering it all for the first time, and Charles wishes desperately he could see it for real, could experience the true wonder of nature instead of a somewhat shoddy illusion his weakened mind barely managed to cobble together.

After a long moment, the boy returns his attention to him, and the malice is completely gone from his eyes. _"I like you. What's your name?" _

_"Charles," _he holds out his hand to shake, and once again the boy grips it lightly. _"What's yours?" _

_"Jason." _

"_It's nice to meet you, Jason."  
><em>

_ "I've never met anyone like me," _Jason sinks back down into the grass, wrapping his arms around his bony knees.

_"None of the others were like you?" _

Jason shakes his head. "_No. They didn't want to talk to me. They were scared of me. Everyone's scared of me." _

_"I'm not," _Charles counters and wonder floods Jason's mismatched eyes again.

_ "I don't want them to take you away." _

_ "They took the others away?" _

Jason nods. _"The ones that didn't die, yes." _

Charles feels a shiver run down his spine. _"How … how many others were there, Jason?" _

Jason shrugs. _"A lot. I don't know." _

_"And how long have you been here?" _Charles presses.

Jason shrugs again, but he looks tired. _"I don't know. A long time. As long as I can remember. Ever since I killed her." _

_"Killed who?" _Charles echoes in alarm.

Jason's eyes are haunted. _"My mother." _And Charles feels cold shock freeze the blood in his veins.

_"You killed your mother?" _

"_I didn't mean to!" _Jason leaps to his feet, tears brimming in his large eyes. _"I … I just couldn't help it! I didn't mean to! I swear!" _

Sobs begin to wrack his too-thin frame, and Charles surges to his knees, wrapping the boy up in his arms as a terrible picture comes together in his head.

_"Was it … was it the visions, Jason? Did your mother go crazy because … because of the visions?" _He's always wondered if his own mother would have suffered the same kind of fate, had he possessed less control as a child. His natural genius allowed him good control from a very early age, but Jason … even now it's clear the child doesn't have control of his vast powers.

Jason merely nods, sniffling against his shirt, and Charles's heart breaks as he runs trembling fingers through the boy's hair. So many atrocities in this world, so many horrors and pains that he wishes he could prevent—he wonders when they'll all become too much for his already weary heart to bear.

_"I'm so sorry, Jason." _

_ "He said I was dangerous. Said I needed to be locked away, so he brought me here, to help him with his research." _

_ "Who? Who said that?" _

_ "My father. The colonel." _

Horror floods Charles's mind alongside bitter understanding and for a moment it's all he can do not to scream in fury. The boy he's cradling in his arms, this lost, damaged boy, is Stryker's own son. Stryker is experimenting on his own _son. _

For the first time in his life, Charles Xavier wants to rip someone to shreds with his bare hands.

Hugging the boy more tightly to his chest, Charles battles his own tears of anger and pain—his own and the boy's he can feel pulsing through his veins. "_I'm so so sorry, Jason. He's wrong. You just need to learn control. That's all. He shouldn't be keeping you here." _

_"No!" _Jason tries to pull away, but Charles holds on, keeping his arms wrapped securely around the child. Instead, Jason beats against his back with his small fists as a hurricane rages across their connected minds. _"You're wrong! Don't talk about my father that way!" _

He wants to argue, to make the boy see his father for the monster he is, but he can tell already it will be fruitless. Stryker has his son firmly beneath his thumb. "_Sorry. I'm sorry, Jason. Please calm down. You're hurting me." _

To his relief, the hurricane immediately quiets and Jason's voice is meek as it echoes through his mind. _"I'm sorry." _

Smiling through his tears, he pets the boy's hair gently. _"It's alright." _

He can sense they don't have much time left. The guards are returning. Desperately, he buries his face into Jason's hair and pours every drop of love he can muster through the bond they've forged. Jason will feel love at least once in his life, even if it's the only thing Charles can do for him. Jason trembles in his grip from the power of it and curls his hands into the back of his jacket.

He can sense it, too.

_"Don't go! I don't want them to take you away! Please, Charles. Stay with me."_

_ "I wish I could, little one. I'm sorry." _

The door opens and the illusion shatters. Charles finds himself lying face down on the floor, Jason in a similar position a few inches away. Their fingers are touching, just barely, and his head aches. Everything is fuzzy and the guard's fist in the back of his shirt barely registers. They wrench him off the floor and he groans as the pain of his injuries rushes back.

Jason's eyes open and when he sees the guards shoving Charles toward the door, he explodes into motion.

_"NO!" _He shrieks and the guards cry out in agony, clutching their heads and momentarily releasing Charles.

Shocked, Charles realizes that though he can feel the storm tearing through Jason, it is not harming him. Jason is _purposefully _trying to keep him safe. One of the guards manages to stand, cursing, and starts toward Jason on unsteady legs, raising his rifle.

"No! Don't! Don't hurt him!" Charles yells frantically, staggering forward. His fingers brush the guard's back but it's too late.

The rifle strikes Jason across the temple and his small body crumples to the floor. The storm dies away and looking at Jason's still form, Charles is sorely tempted to start it up again, to tear the room to pieces and stop only when the guards are dead at his feet. But those are dark thoughts, and he's too weak, anyway. So he stands in numb silence as the guard straightens and takes his arm again in a bruising grip.

"Let's go, freak," the man growls.


	5. Checkmate

**Well, we're winding down. Just the epilogue left. :) **

**Here is the long awaited chapter where Erik goes all BA on everyone.  
><strong>

**Thanks to everyone for their overwhelming support for this story and this little AU I've created. You'll all be pleased to hear that my muse has decided that a one-shot series is not enough. I tried to get started on it, but my muse blocked me at every turn, insisting that a multi-chaptered story would be much easier/more fulfilling. We argued back and forth for awhile, and like always, I lost. My muse is a stubborn jerk when it wants be (which is all the time, actually.)  
><strong>

**SO, to make a long story short, instead of a one-shot series, there will be a PREQUEL to The King's Gambit, which will elaborate on the back story of the AU. It'll be called The Last Train Home (underground railroad, train, get it? I'm so clever. Not.). I've already started writing so expect the first chapter up a few days after this story finishes. **

**Now that I've written a book, I'll let you get to the real story. Cue BAMF Erik. **

* * *

><p>They leave the young but capable Ororo Munroe in charge of the younger students, and head towards Montana just as the sun is beginning to catch the horizon on fire.<p>

The plane is silent and tense as Hank steers them steadily westward. With the speed of the jet, the flight shouldn't take more than a hour, but after seven days of waiting and planning, even that short span of time feels too long. Erik glances around at his team, trying to judge their mental and emotional states. They've never tackled anything this big before, and he needs them in top form.

Sean is pale, fiddling with his flight suit with slightly shaky fingers, but when he meets Erik's gaze, his brown eyes are full of determination. Alex looks marginally calmer, but he still taps nervously against his chest plate, and the tension rolls of him in a subdued wave. Remy is shuffling his unassuming playing cards and his gaze is turned inward, focused on the past. Next to him, Wade projects the most calm, balancing one of his swords against his knee. For once, he's not talking but he smiles grimly when he catches Erik looking, dark eyes sparking with the thrill of a challenge, and Erik is sure that he's the only one genuinely excited about this whole affair.

But they'll all be fine, the metal manipulator decides. It's Charles on the line and Charles is …

Charles is _everything. _To all of them.

"So," Wade begins—never able to keep quiet for long, "Run us through the plan again, El Capitan."

The rest of the team turns their attention to him almost eagerly, welcoming a potential distraction, so Erik figures that since he dragged them all into this, he can indulge them just this once.

"Fine. But if you don't all know it by now, I'm leaving you with the plane," he warns to multiple eye rolls.

"We know the plan," Alex says. "We're not five. Just … talk, okay?"

So Erik does, running through their haphazard strategy one more time. "Hank is going to find an out of the way place to land so we don't get picked up by any scanners. From what we can tell, the base is in the side of a mountain. So we'll have to hike there. There's a service entrance that we're going to access. After that, we split up in teams. Don't worry about invisibility this time. Just try not to kill anyone."

"Not that it will be a great loss if you do," Wade quips, tilting his sword so it catches the light of the rising sun.

"Ignore him," Erik orders the rest of the group. "Alex and Sean, you're one group. Hank and Remy, you're the other, and Wade and I will be group three. Try to stick together, but don't be afraid of splitting up if it makes things easier. Look for Charles and/or Stryker. If you find any experiments that still seem sane, free them. We won't have Charles, so we'll be communicating via radio headsets. Signal the rest of the team if you run into trouble. Once we have Charles, we head back to the plane. Split up then, so it will make it harder for them to track us."

He glances around at the members of the strike team, still feeling that most of them look entirely too _young _for this. But he had been too young when Shaw turned him into a weapon, and Charles had been too young when he'd felt the pain of a coin being driven through his skull and a bullet shattering its way into his leg. In this life, for them, there isn't such a thing as _too young _anymore, and they can call it a tragedy all they want, but the truth remains.

"Got it?" He asks softly, and they nod without hesitation.

They will push through in spite of their fear. They've proven that to him numerous times since the government crackdowns started, and he knows they won't fail him now.

Silence descends again, and the minutes tick by until Hank's voice crackles to them over their headsets. "Landing in five."

As one, they breathe out their fear, their worry, and their doubts. When Erik spares them all one last look, he sees nothing but soldiers looking back at him.

It prompts a weary smile.

* * *

><p>The guards drag him back down the hall and throw him into the glass room. He lands in a heap and doesn't bother moving. He's never felt this exhausted in his life. And though he's been shot, struck by lightening, blasted through walls, and nearly crushed since the start of the railroad, he doesn't think he's ever been in this much pain—both emotionally and psychically. During those times, his friends were steady presences at his side, ready to help him through.<p>

Now, he's alone—locked in a glass cage with nothing but his reflection and monsters to keep him company.

"Welcome back." Speaking of monsters. "You've had an interesting effect on our resident telepath, I see."

"You mean your son?" He spits, climbing slowly to his feet.

There's a pregnant pause that does little to hide the truth. "He told you that?"

"Yes, you _bastard," _Charles snarls, angrier than he's ever been in his life. "How could you do something like that to your own son?"

"My son is dead," Stryker snaps back. "That creature is just the thing that killed him and his mother."

"That was an accident! If you'd gotten him help instead of treating him like he's some kind of disease, you_ monster,_ this never would've happened!"

"_Enough," _Stryker barks.

"_No_!" Charles screams back, clenching his good hand into a trembling fist. "You're torturing your _own son_! You're nothing but a filthy monster and a bloody coward! You hide behind glass! Are you afraid of me, _William? _You can't face something you can't control, is that it? Too afraid?"

The intercom crackles with the remnants of Stryker's snarl before going silent, leaving Charles alone, quivering with the aftershocks of his rage. The quiet only lasts a moment before the door opens again and a familiar pair of guards marches in, carrying two chairs. They set them down opposite each other and shove him into one, wrenching his hands behind his back.

He bites back a scream as they pull on his broken wrist, fastening metal cuffs onto him. The agony is almost enough to make him black out, but he clings stubbornly to awareness because he knows who's coming next.

Sure enough, Stryker strides into the room once he's secure, nodding to the guards, who turn and exit as silently as they came. With a furious glare in his direction, Stryker sinks down into the chair opposite his. Charles smiles, not bothering to hide his smugness and hoping that his bloodstained lips and teeth make the gesture every bit as frightening as he wishes it to be. Stryker's shoulders tense but he gives no other reaction.

Disappointing.

"How long have I been here?" He asks, trying to hold on to his calm.

Stryker graces him with one of his sharp smiles. "One week. I doubt your friends are going to find you."

A week? Charles struggles to mask his surprise, but hope swells with it. Seven days is a long time—more than enough for Erik to make plans.

"I see," he replies neutrally.

Stryker leans forward, eyes dark flames in his face. "And I'm tired of the games, mutant. Tell me what I want to know."

"I'm sick of them, too," Charles says casually. "That's why I'm going to let you in on a secret. Do you place chess, perchance?"

Stryker's brow furrows. "No."

"Pity. Chess is a marvelous game." At Stryker's murderous glare, Charles ploughs ahead, sinking down in the chair to take some of the pressure off his injured wrist. "Well, in chess there are two very powerful pieces on the board. The king and the queen. The entire goal of the game is to capture the king—he is the most vital piece on the board. However, the queen is the most powerful, and her sole job is to protect the king at all costs."

"Is there a point to this, mutant?" Stryker growls.

Charles gives him another bloody grin. "Yes. You see, I'm the king, and the queen is coming for me. I can guarantee it. You have a lot of weapons in this building. You might want to do something about that."

Stryker leaps to his feet with an angry snarl of disdain and punches Charles across the face. The force of the blow rocks the telepath to the side, nearly toppling the chair. "You have two hours to tell me what I want to know, mutant. And if you don't, I guarantee there will consequences, not only for you, but others in this building."

A pinprick of fear punctures Charles's calm, but he doesn't let it show, smiling through the pain, because it unnerves Stryker and he'll take any advantage he can get at this point. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Colonel."

Stryker storms from the room and Charles finally succumbs to the darkness, allowing it to pull him into safety, well away from all the hurt.

* * *

><p>The guard yells in shock as Wade's boot connects with the side of his head, knocking him hard against the concrete wall. Wade lands on both feet—swords flashing as he easily deflects the hail of bullets streaming down the corridor. Erik raises a hand and the guns fall silent, dropping to the floor in useless heaps of metal. The guards have less than a second to look surprised before Wade is on them, knocking one out with the hilt of his sword and planting a solid foot in the other's chest.<p>

Erik rushes to his side as they pause to catch their breath.

"This is fun," Wade says with murderous glee, spinning his sword and looking for all the world like a boy in a candy store.

"Still no sign of Charles, though." Erik can feel the worry and fear creeping back up his throat, threatening to strangle him.

"We'll find him," Wade assures him confidently.

The door at the end of the corridor slides open and more soldiers tumble though like ants.

"Let's speed things up," the ex-assassin adds with a dark smirk.

With that, he's moving before the soldiers even have a chance to even raise their weapons. As Erik once again crumples their guns into balls of metal, Wade dispatches them with terrifying efficiency.

All but one.

The poor idiot, looking like a terror-stricken new recruit, is slammed against the wall with Wade's blade at his neck.

"Where's Stryker?" The regen growls, pressing his sword into skin hard enough to draw blood.

The soldier whimpers, shaking in Wade's grip. "I-I don't know."

"Not good enough. Sorry." Wade digs the blade in deeper as Erik comes to his side.

"Tell us," he snarls. "Or I'll rip you apart with the iron in your blood." He's not sure if he can actually do that, but the bluff makes the soldier shake so hard he appears to be in the middle of his own private earthquake.

"P-please! D-don't h-hurt me!"

"Then tell us where he is." Wade's tone is casual, but his eyes spark dangerously. "Otherwise, we'd be more than happy to kill you."

"T-t-the h-hanger. He's p-p-probably evacuating w-with t-the s-s-scientists."

"Where's the hanger?" Erik demands impatiently.

The solider raises a trembling hand, pointing toward the door he and the others came through. "T-that w-way."

"Thanks." Wade smiles and clubs the man across the head with his sword, dropping him to the floor with the rest of his unit.

The door gives way easily beneath the force of Erik's will and they tear down the corridor at a dead sprint. As they round a corner, Erik sees a small huddle of soldiers retreating, protecting what looks to be a gaggle of scientists and a stern military man. Though Erik has never seen his face, he knows, deep inside, who the man is.

"_Stryker!"_ he roars and the very walls tremble.

"I've got this," Wade hisses to him. "Go find the Professor."

For a moment, Erik is torn, because vengeance has always been the surest way—the _strongest _way—but this is Charles and Charles is the center of their gravity, their touchstone, their leader.

There isn't a choice between the two. Not anymore. Not after a coin and Shaw and the realization of the agony a dear friend had suffered at the hands of his vengeance.

He nods, surrenders this over to Wade and his swords and brimstone eyes. Wade leaves his side in a flash, tearing after the soldiers with pounding feet and glinting weapons. Erik turns the other way, down a twisting side corridor, and wishes almost desperately for Charles's voice in his head to guide him. He feels blind without it and the rooms flash by in an endless series of meaningless numbers as his fear mounts.

At last, after far too long, he sees a sign for the labs and containment area. Barely pausing, he tears the metal door from its hinges. A group of soldiers raise their guns from the other side, standing protectively in front of another huddle of white-clad scientists. When his eyes catch the gleaming lab equipment, the dirty tank of water, and the blood-stained tables, Erik feels rage set the iron in his blood on fire.

Death would be a mercy for these monsters, and he raises his hands with the intent of delivering justice.

Charles voices resounds in his head—the ghost of a memory.

"_We have it in us to be the better men. Please, Erik, never forget that." _

Full of pain and anger and fear, Erik settles for melting the metal tables and dismantling the soldiers' guns, hurling them against the far wall with enough force to render them unconscious.

"Where is he?" He stalks toward the cowering scientists, hauling one forward by the metal buttons on his shirt.

"W-who?" The man asks, staring at him with wild eyes.

"The man who arrived here a week ago." He fists a rough hand in the man's shirt and elevates the remaining lab equipment from the floor threateningly.

The man eyes the hovering tools with unconcealed terror and breaks much more easily than the soldier before him. "D-down t-the hall. T-t-the g-glass r-room."

A glass room.

Suddenly, Erik remembers the submarine, the void that Charles couldn't reach through, Shaw—imperious, untouchable, surrounded by _glass._ That's why Charles has been so silent. Stryker managed to trap him inside his own mind. And for Charles, there is no worse fate than that. He'd only worn Shaw's helmet once, at Hank's request, before throwing it away in distaste. When Hank protested, citing the research that needed to be conducted, Charles had looked at him with grim refusal.

"_No. It feels like being dead." _

Erik knocks out the scientist with a blow to the side of the head. Glaring murderously at the rest of the pathetic group, he says softly, dangerously, "If you _ever _come near any of my kind again, I will find you and kill you. I promise you that."

He leaves them there, shaking in their pretentious lab coats, and races down the hall to the glass room. As he runs, a mantra winds its way through his mind, pulsing in time to the mad beating of his heart.

_Be alive, be safe, be alive, be safe, bealivebesafebealivebesafe… _

The door to the glass room looms before him and he throws it open with a wave of his hand. Inside, the walls shimmer innocently in the dim light, and in the center of the pristine prison is Charles—slumped in a folding chair with his arms bound behind his back. At his feet, the glass is stained vibrant red.

Erik's breath locks up in his throat.

_No. _

He drops to his knees at Charles's side, quickly cataloguing his friend's injuries while the rest of him tries not to panic or fall into blind, murderous rage. Charles's clothes are bloodstained and wet, and his pale face is marred with vicious bruises and angry red cuts. One eye looks swollen shut and his lip is split and leaking a small line of blood down his chin. Purple stains line his jaw and ring his neck and Erik wants to scream.

He removes the metal cuffs hurriedly, wincing at Charles's raw wrists. One appears swollen and when Erik touches it gently, he knows it's broken. Without the cuffs holding him to the chair, the telepath slumps forward against Erik—his forehead dropping to rest on the other man's shoulder.

Erik wraps his arms around the smaller man instinctively, holding Charles to his chest as he listens to the dull thrum of his heartbeat, the quiet rush of his breath, and feels the iron coursing through his veins.

Alive. Charles is alive.

"_I lost Stryker," _Wade's voice crackles over the radio, jarring the silence. _"He escaped in a helicopter with some scientists and a kid. I did beat up a bunch of soldiers, though. Heheh. Anyway, I'm on my way back. Have you found the Prof?" _

Erik closes his eyes, curling his fingers in the back of Charles's tattered shirt. "Yes," he whispers.

Charles is alive. That's all that matters now.

"_Is he okay?" _

"Yes. Head to the rendezvous point. Tell the others."

"_Sure thing, boss man." _

Carefully, Erik rests Charles back against the chair. Then, with a deep breath he stands and closes his eyes, feeling the metal running through the walls behind the veneer of glass. Calling upon it, he shatters the glass to a thousand tiny shards that fall to the floor like sharp snowflakes.

Something changes in the air, begins to breathe again, and in the chair, he can hear Charles starting to stir.

Rushing to his friend's side, he places both hands on Charles's shoulders and begins calling his name, coaxing him back to the land of the living.

* * *

><p>"Charles! Charles, wake up!"<p>

He knows that voice, could recognize it anywhere, even if he hasn't heard it in what feels like forever. It's accompanied by an equally familiar presence that washes over his mind in soothing waves—it feels like sunlight, brilliant and burning but endlessly warm.

_Erik… _

"That's it, Charles. Wake up."

He reaches for the presence, wraps it around him like a cocoon, drawing strength from it as he slowly blinks open his good eye. Erik is standing over him, gripping his shoulders with a mixture of concern and fury on his face. The glass around them is completely shattered and through the open doors, Charles can blurrily make out the twisted, smoking remains of the facility.

For once, he can't bring himself to care about any potential casualties.

Instead, he smiles up at Erik. "Checkmate," he murmurs through the blood still caked in his mouth.

Erik shakes his head, but there is grim amusement in his eyes. "Let's get you out of here."

Gentle hands wrap around his torso, under his arms, and begin to lift him from the chair. He realizes groggily that his hands have been freed, but the relief is soon drowned beneath the waves of agony that rock through him like an earthquake. He cries out and Erik stops immediately, peering at him with wide, sorrowful eyes.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I should have gotten here sooner."

Charles manages to shake his head, weakly grasping Erik's sleeve. "No. You came. Thanks."

Erik's jaw tightens but he doesn't argue, merely continues lifting Charles into his arms. Charles cries out again as another jolt of pain hits him, and Erik soothes him with muttered German. Charles latches on to the power of his mental presence, drawing strength from it, as Erik finally secures him in his arms. He's being cradled like a baby, but he's in too much pain to care about ruined dignity.

Instead, he chuckles, remembering a conversation from before. Erik blinks down at him in confusion, so he smiles up at his friend. "You did say you'd carry me out if anything went wrong."

Erik huffs an incredulous laugh. "You're ridiculous," he proclaims and they begin their trek through the base.

Charles curiously takes in the aftermath of his friend's anger. There is little left of Stryker's facility. He'd warned the man.

"Where's … Stryker?"

"He got away." Fury makes Erik's words quiver and Charles instinctively projects a wave of calm at him, prompting him to steady himself with a deep breath before continuing. "He took a kid with him. Wade went after him, but lost him when he took off in a helicopter. I would have gone after him, too, but I was too busy looking for you."

So Jason is gone, still in the clutches of his father. The thought saddens him deeply, but this is not the end. There will be other days, and on one of them, he will rescue the lost boy that so touched his heart. Jason reminds him why he has chosen this path, why he fights, why he decided to stand against the world instead of completely being a part of it.

A great man once said that war is far preferable to certain kinds of peace, and the Jasons of the world will make sure Charles never forgets the truth in those words.

"I'm sorry, Charles," Erik murmurs as they step out into the sunlight.

Charles squints up at the swaying trees and the endless blue sky. "It's alright. There'll be … other days."

With that final reassurance, he sinks back into oblivion, heedless of Erik frantically calling his name.

* * *

><p>Erik paces the hall in front of Charles's door, consciously trying to keep a hold on his powers in spite of the nervousness running through his veins, setting his skin on fire.<p>

Charles had not woken once during the plane ride and it had taken all of his willpower not to succumb to a panic attack. The rest of the team had hovered closely, shooting the professor obvious glances of concern and worry. It was strange for them to see their normally unflappably optimistic and poised leader so pale and battered.

But not weak. Charles had never been weak.

After much debate, they'd called a doctor to treat Charles's injuries. Via telephone, Raven had given them the name of the physician who had been treating the Xavier family for years, and knew better than to ask questions. Besides, Hank had argued, Charles could always wipe his memory later.

So that brought him to here, in the hall, pacing like a caged tiger while the others gather on the stairwell.

The younger new "students" are in bed. Hank had ushered them away so they wouldn't have to witness the bloodied body of their leader being carried into his bedroom. The mansion is quiet, too quiet, and as the minutes tick by, Erik can feel his anxiety growing.

Finally, the door clicks open, and the doctor steps through, wiping his hands on a towel. The members of the strike team form a ring around him in a matter of seconds, Erik at the head.

"Well?" he presses when the doctor does little more than regard them with wry amusement.

The faint smile slips from the doctor's face and he rubs a weary hand over his temple, ruffling his thinning white hair. "He's in bad shape, I'm not going to lie, but he should pull through."

"What's wrong with him?" Sean asks, and the soldier from before is gone, leaving behind a scared young man with fear-blown eyes and wan skin beneath his freckles.

"He has four cracked ribs, a broken wrist, a mild concussion, a sprained ankle, as well as numerous cuts and contusions. I've prescribed him some painkillers and I recommend bed rest for at least a week. He needs to take things slow, especially with that previously damaged leg of his."

"We'll make sure he's well taken care of," Erik assures the man as he ushers him toward the front door.

The doctor nods amicably and presses a card into Erik's hand. "Very good. Call me if you need anything, son."

And with that the elderly man is gone, ambling along toward his car. Erik breathes a sigh of relief once he's gone, grateful that he didn't inquire into _how _Charles got his injuries. Stuffing the card in a pocket in his slacks, he makes his way back to the others, still huddled in the hallway, whispering to each other.

"Get some sleep," Erik orders, interrupting their chatter. They turn to look at him, varying degrees of protest on their faces, but he refuses to back down. "It's been a long week. You need rest too. I'll keep everyone updated."

With a few grumbles, they trudge up the stairs, heading to their rooms and Erik slips into Charles's room, closing the door softly behind him.

"Hello, Erik." The soft voice startles him badly. He hadn't expected Charles to be awake. The doctor certainly hadn't said anything to indicate that he might be.

"Yes, I'm awake," Charles says with a quiet chuckle as he easily picks up on the thoughts blaring through Erik's mind. "I'd rather not be, but you all are thinking so loudly it's nearly impossible to sleep."

Erik sinks down on the side of the bed with a sheepish wince. "Sorry."

Charles's lips quirk up slightly, but the smile is lost beneath bandages and marred skin. "It's alright. Actually, it's a relief, being able to hear others' thoughts again. I never thought I would miss it, but being in that room…" he trails off with a quiet shudder, and Erik doesn't know all that he suffered, or if they'll ever speak of it, but for now a part of him just wants to weep with relief at the fact that he is here—alive and talking and going to be okay.

Charles's eyes soften, searching, and they're still stunningly blue, even ringed in purple and red. "Erik…" he sucks in a sharp breath when Erik suddenly leans forward, pressing their foreheads together.

He is rarely affectionate, preferring everyone to stay at a safe distance, even Charles. But right now he can make an exception, because he was so _worried _and they were all so _lost _and how one person can come to mean so much, he doesn't know, but Charles does, to all of them, and they almost didn't get him back. So he closes his eyes and listens to Charles breathe and reminds himself to live in the present and not could have beens or might haves.

Charles's good hand knots in the back of his turtleneck and when the telepath speaks it echoes clear as a bell in his mind.

"_I was never worried, you know. I knew you were coming for me." _

Erik laughs into Charles's neck and somehow it turns into a slight sob and then he's clinging unabashedly while doing his best not to jostle any of Charles's numerous injuries. "I'm just so glad you're all right."

Charles tolerates the proximity with his usual grace, merely turning his face to press against Erik's hair. "I am, too, my friend."

They stay like that for quite some time, silently reveling in the feeling of being alive and safe and in each other's presence again—their minds running together like a gentle river pushed by the warmth of a summer breeze.

For Erik, there is no rage now, only serenity.


	6. Epilogue: The King's Gambit

**Wow. I finished a multi-chaptered story. That hasn't happened in _years. _Years, I tell you. **

**Anyway, an overwhelming thank you to everyone who has supported this little story of mine. You've honored me, dear readers. **

**And, for those who are interested, there's more to the story. The first chapter of _The Last Train Home_, prequel to this story, should be up in a few days. **

**For now, enjoy the fluff. :) **

* * *

><p>"Checkmate," Charles says with a cheeky grin and Erik's eyes narrow.<p>

"Wait. Your king was wide open … you trapped me," Erik accuses, realization dawning on his face.

Charles savors the triumph, leaning back in his chair and letting his grin widen at Erik's baffled expression. "That I did, my friend."

"What kind of strategy was that?" Erik asks, crossing his arms and peering down at the board as though it holds the answers beneath its wooden veneer.

"It's called the King's Gambit, I believe," Charles replies, enjoying the feel of the cool fall wind on his face. After being cooped up and constantly surrounded by his anxious students and colleagues for two weeks, it's nice to be out in the fresh air.

Even though it had taken a great deal of convincing for Erik to move their chess game to the balcony.

"I've never heard of it." Erik picks up his king, turning it idly in his palm.

"It's a more creative move, and a dangerous one. After all, it puts the king at risk."

Erik glances up at him with a deep frown. "That's never a good idea."

"It has its advantages, you must admit." Charles shrugs, ignoring the slight twinge of pain from his still-healing ribs the motion incites. His wrist is aching, as well, but overall it's a good day and he refuses to let his injuries ruin it.

"But what if the trap fails?" Erik inquires, staring at him intently and Charles is almost certain they're not talking about chess anymore.

"Then the king is lost. Hence the risk."

"I still don't think it's a good idea."

Charles smiles. "But, you see, the king has the queen to protect him. She's the most powerful piece on the board, after all. She's good at keeping the king safe."

"That doesn't mean the king can throw himself headlong into danger." Another pointed look and Charles is _definitely _certain this has nothing to do with chess.

"I don't throw myself headlong into danger," he argues, giving up the metaphor.

Erik places the king back down on the board with a sharp sigh. "You certainly don't do anything to avoid it either."

"Risks are a part of our life now, Erik. We all have to accept them."

Erik shakes his head stubbornly. "Promise me, Charles. Promise me you won't get stuck in that kind of situation again."

"Erik…"

"We can't lose you," Erik cuts off his protests, leaning over the board and pinning him with a firm stare.

Charles feels something heavy in his chest, then, and when he reaches for Erik's mind he can see it—the pale faces of the boys, the late nights staring at the ceiling trying not to go crazy, the crushing emptiness, how _lost _they all felt without his guidance. It stuns him, how much he has come to mean to them, and he feels the rest of his arguments die in his throat.

"Do you see?" Erik presses and Charles nods mutely, still overwhelmed. "So promise."

"I'll do my best."

"That's not good enough!" Erik fires back, reaching across the table to grip his good wrist. "You're too important to…"

"Erik," Charles slips his arm from Erik's hand and in turn places it on his shoulder. "I can't promise the impossible. But, it'll be alright. I have the queen to protect me. I have you, and the others, and I know you'll never leave me behind. That's good enough for me." He squeezes Erik's shoulder and smiles, projecting his certainty and faith toward the other man.

Erik has only failed him once, and the trust they've been building since then—that steady kind—is the kind that endures through any trial. Erik blinks, mouth forming a quiet "O" of surprise, before the beginnings of a smile flickers on the edges of his lips and he nods in understanding.

Charles lets go of his shoulder with another private smile and leans back, glancing at the board then up at Erik with a raised eyebrow. "Fancy another game?"

Erik flashes him a quick grin and begins to set up the board again. "Of course. And I promise you won't beat me so easily this time."

Charles smirks teasingly. "I should hope not."

The next game starts, sucking them in easily, and for the moment Stryker and the war seem far away. Tomorrow there will be new fears, new obstacles to face, but for now the sky is blue, the sun is warm, and he is in the company of his best friend.

For now, they are merely _ErikandCharles_, and that is enough. More than enough, actually.

Perfection.


End file.
